Picking Up The Pieces
by Busman's Holiday
Summary: Post-Later, reunion type fic. Ste wakes up the morning after Brendan has bared his soul.


Picking Up The Pieces

Senses returned one by one. It was the creaks of a house in the morning that came first. A washing machine on a spin cycle. A crackle of a radio in the kitchen. A flutter of a bird outside the window. His own breathing.

An aftershave that wasn't his, lingered on the pillow underneath his nose. The cotton felt smooth under his fingertips. He hadn't expected to be here again. He'd told himself that he never would.

But still, sometimes, there had been a flicker of doubt.

And it wasn't that feeling of the past, that resignation, that weakness and inevitability. This had been a change, a choice and the lifetime in the making. The familiarity of his body felt like the only reminder of the past, because last night had almost been their first time.

He'd remembered every ripple of muscle (although they were more defined than before), every imperfection of skin, the span of his hands and their worn knuckles, the fading ink of his tattoos – the one that buried right amongst the hair on his chest, the way his eyes looked after coming like he was caught in the centre of a storm. But there were new scars to learn now, physical ridges of white skin, and they were just part of the story as to why he was here now.

As he shifted his arm, he brushed over Brendan's. It had come to rest around his middle in the night and had stayed there so long that Ste felt its weight and heat was part of him. He placed his hand on top, digits running over the length of his slender fingers. Brendan stirred, his thumb circling over the downy hair of his stomach. His lips buried warmly into the crook of Ste's neck.

"You're still here," he said, mumbled and deeper of a morning. There wasn't sadness in his tone, but a quiet surprise. He'd been quieter for months.

Ste rolled on his back. He scanned Brendan's face intently and then deciding he needed more proof of his being there, he reached out and touched his face. The lines under his eyes told of a lifetime wasted. He smoothed them with his thumb. Not anymore.

"Where else were you expecting me?" Ste said.

There was a moment of composure from Brendan. "Making my breakfast,"

And then he grinned. No menace. No tight lips and wild eyes. Just a wide, warm smile.

Ste's hand slipped to Brendan's chest and he held it there, flat. There was a reassuring thud of his heart. Memories of a machine's rhythmic beeping came flooding back. Brendan picked up on the brief shift in Ste's face.

"It ain't like before Steven. _I_ ain't like before. We leave this room and the spell in't broken. I meant every word last night,"

Ste closed the gap in the bed and pressed up against him. "I don't think you've ever talked about your feelings this much in twenty-four hours!" He teased.

He grunted and kissed Ste's hair. "I took a knock to the head. Don't get used to it,"

For a brief moment, Ste felt like telling him that he couldn't do this, he couldn't put his heart and soul into Brendan again only to be let down. But then he realised, he'd already made him his life. Whatever steeliness and resistance he'd had was gone, had been slipping away, over months of seeing Brendan become someone different, see the man he loved rise to the surface, shedding the layers and years of pain and cruelty and destruction. Until finally, cards laid on the table, he took Ste's hand and apologised.

They were back where it all started. Chez Chez. But gone was the suit and the power games and left was a man, older, wiser, picking up the pieces.

"I don't want you to forgive me. I don't deserve it," he said. Something's never change, and he could barely keep eye contact. He swirled ice around in his whiskey. "I ain't got any excuses that make up for what I did to ya, Steven. You're worth a hundred of me." He paused then, rubbing his forehead. "No, you're worth so much better than me. You deserve a guy that's….and that'll always be my biggest regret. Not being him."

Ste had let the silence drag on between them. His mind span through every comeback. Everything that had happened in the club played through his mind like a movie.

Finally he asked the most important question. "D'you still love me?"

He smiled at this, if only for a second. "It doesn't matter how I feel,"

Ste stood, he felt that familiar bubble of frustration inside him, flaring up. "Of course it matters!"

"Steven just go home,"

"No!" he said, fists clenching and unfolding. "Answer me,"

Brendan drained his glass and turned on his stool so he faced Ste. "There's no one else. There's never been and there never will be anyone who I love like I love you."

And that was enough then, zero hesitation, no going back. Ste launched himself at Brendan, lips pressed hard against his. He held Brendan's face in his palms, easing into a slow re-finding of lips, unkissed for too long, feeling Brendan's arms drawing around his back.

And now in Brendan's bed, wrapped in his arms, Ste had that moment of bliss and terror of a future he'd dreamt of for so long, in his grasp. Would they make it? Brendan had almost died trying. And Ste didn't want to die without trying.

He looked up at Brendan, a day's worth of stubble grazed Ste's forehead. "I could get used to this though." He grinned at him, cheeks glowing impishly as he cuddled up to him.

"Is that right?" Brendan said, fingers tracing up the curve of his neck. "Good."


End file.
